


216 - Graphic Designer/Artist Reader

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 18:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17391113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Reader, who’s a graphic designer, knows someone from Catfish team and is visiting them on work. While she’s waiting for them she’s drawing. Van had been stressing out over the new album’s cover, cause he disliked the options they had. While passing by he sees her drawing and instantly knows it’s the one he wants. They flirt but nothing happens until he appears to one of her expositions and asks her out. Flufflyness is always appreciated” and “you spend the night at van’s (as a friend maybe) and you mean to borrow one of his shirts but it ends up being larry’s” and “a fic about trying to explain to van that you’ve just never really had a best friend/ you’ve had best friends in the past (teen years) but they’ve always had better friends than you and it’s always just sorta bothered you (it’s basically my reality lol) and like van not really getting how that’s possible”Bonus mini-request for painting with Van.





	216 - Graphic Designer/Artist Reader

Trent gave you some of the thick, nice paper from the printer under his receptionist station to keep you occupied while you waited for him to go on his lunch break. You sat in the waiting room scribbling away with a charcoal pencil when someone wandered in from the record label offices. The room was where the elevators were and he pressed the button to go down. You'd not bothered looking up until he was standing over you, his shadow robbing you of light.

The first thing you noticed about him were his eyelashes, thick and long and beautiful. Then, a small red mark under his left eye. He was talking before your brain thought to listen.

"Sorry?" you asked for him to repeat himself, despite having stared at his face the whole time. He smiled.

"Said that's dead good. You an artist or something?"

"Something… graphic designer,"

"What's that for?"

You looked down at the alligator. You shrugged, and moved to fill in details but stopped yourself. Maybe it was done.

"Nothing. It's not for anything. My friend works here. Just waiting for him to come to lunch. Just killing time," you answered.

The guy nodded then held his hand out for the paper. "Can I see?"

As he held the paper, his eyes flicking from detail to detail, Trent appeared in the room.

"Ready spaghetti?" he asked you. You stood.

"Can I have this?" the guy asked. "Hey, Trent," he added, flicking his head at him from across the room.

"Van. You've met Y/N then,"

"No, not yet. Y/N?" Van repeated, hand out to shake. As you shook you asked him why he wanted the alligator. "Not sure, really. Can I get back to you on that one?"

Normally, there was no way in hell you’d hand over art to a stranger, regardless of how meaningless the drawing had been, or how pretty the person was. It, therefore, made little sense that you let the alligator go so readily, bidding Van goodbye and watching him walk back into the offices when he had planned on leaving.

Over lunch you asked Trent about him.

"If you’re interested, you better fuckin' take a number. His band's about to drop their second album. First one did quite well, but everyone thinks they're gonna blow up. People just love Van. And honestly, it's deserved. He's a really nice person. Never treated me funny or anything," Trent told you and it hurt that his measure of nice was simply not being overtly homophobic.

"Why do you think he wanted the drawing?”

"Mmmm… Maybe for the album cover? They’ve been looking for something but Van's so particular about how he wants everything to be. I heard him talking to Rach about it. Says he's had a plan since he was little. He's pissing some people off, but I think mostly people just admire the… work ethic, or whatever. But yeah. Everyone is getting well stressed about the artwork. Maybe your little croc is it,"

"Alligator,"

"Tomatoes tomatoes,"

"No. They're very different animals. Anyway. He didn't ask to use it for that,"

"They will if they want it. I'll put in a good word, yeah? Say heaps of people are tryna buy your stuff. Maybe you'll get a big cheque out of it."

A few days later, Trent called to set up a meeting between the label, Van, and you. He'd been right. Van had fallen in love with your alligator and the label was requesting a few different options.

You arrived casually dressed, nobody to impress as they'd all seen you before, and with a pile of mock ups for them. In the board room, Van swung his chair back and forth while watching you intently.

"I like the first one she did," he said.

"It's not the same style as The Balcony,"

"Don’t matter. She's a different artist. Be weird if it looked too similar. The rest needs to be the same, but not that. I want the alligator, but just, neater, or whatever. Can you do that?" Van asked. You'd already had your graphic tablet out and had redrawn the alligator with neat and precise lines while they'd been conversing. You held it up to him.

"Like this?"

Van grinned and clapped.

"You're fuckin' perfect, you are."

And that was that. You sold your alligator to Catfish and the Bottlemen and made enough money to keep you happy for a little while. There were royalties in the contract for merchandise, and if Trent was right about them blowing up, you'd keep making money. It wasn't anywhere near enough money to live off, but it was enough to keep you housed and fed while you took leave from work. Pumping out meaningless designs for companies was crushing your soul just a little bit, and your alligator was a godsend that gave you the freedom to take a break.

In the break, your creative spark reignited, and you found inspiration in everything around you. Your designs were bold and bright and when you called up old contacts in underground galleries, it was almost too easy to get a room as part of a local exhibition.

The exhibition showed twenty-two artists and they each used different mediums. Some were photographers, some painters. Some built with their hands, some took to the streets. It was a wildly diverse show but each room, each piece of art, had the common theme of 'youth in revolt.' Your part of the gallery was a mix of digital design and hand drawn elements. Nobody did what you did, and as you stood in the corner of the room watching people come through, it was clear that your uniqueness was truly appreciated by people.

"Got a lot of fans," Trent said, bringing you a red plastic cup of expensive champagne. It was meant to be ironic; you had tried to talk the gallery out of it.

"If I can sell even two of these, I won't have to work for the rest of the year," you said. "I could really do this. No more fucking toothpaste magazine ads,"

"Such a low standard for a dream, Y/N."

Later, when Trent was saying his goodbyes, he looked over your shoulder and you watched his face light up with both recognition and amusement.

"What?" you asked, looking over. Van had walked into the room. He'd not spotted you yet, instead he moved to your art, tilting his head and focusing hard. "What's he doing here?"

"I… don't know,"

"Did you tell him about it?" you asked, looking back at Trent. He was watching Van with a stupid grin on his face.

"Fuck… he is so fucking attractive. How's it even possible?"

"Trent!"

"Sorry. What? No. I didn't. Haven't seen him in a while. They were doing press overseas for a bit, I think. Didn't know he was back."

You both stood watching Van and he sensed it. When he turned around, Trent waved immediately. Van walked over.

"Hey, man," Trent greeted. They did a weird little hug, which Van then forced you into a repeat of.

"Trent. Y/N. How yas going?"

"I am going great. I love the taste of plastic and champagne, and I love when my friends gets more attention than me," Trent answered. Van laughed.

"You kind of are? But do these people know you're… you?" Van asked you. He'd figured out that you'd remained anonymous. Some of the artists in the exhibition were answering questions about their work, taking photos, live tweeting it all. You had purposefully hidden in the shadowy corner.

"Ah… no. They don't,"

"Don't like the spotlight?"

"Not really,"

"She played the part of the tree in every single play at school. Even the ones without trees. There Y/N would be, standing in the back. Holding a fuckin' apple," Trent said.

"We… didn't go to school together?" you replied, confused.

"Am I wrong?" he replied. Van held in a laugh.

"Did they make you come then? Why you here?" he asked.

"I wanted to see what people thought," you answered with a shrug.

"I spoke to some people out front before I came in when I was having a smoke. They said your stuff was the best. Said it was the only unpretentious stuff. Think their exact words were 'not hipster trash' or something," Van reported. You smiled and bit down on your lip.

"A glowing review. Not hipster trash. Anyway. I was about to leave before we spotted you, so I'll leave her in your capable hands, mate," Trent said. He hugged you both and you watched him leave the room.

"Is it annoying if I ask you about them?" Van asked.

"Is it annoying when people ask you about your songs?"

"No, I love it," he replied with a smile. He followed you over to the first piece, and you told him about it, using photos on your phone to give him a better idea of how it started. As you moved down the line, a lady stopped at the tail end of one of your explanations. She must have missed the use of I statements, and assumed you were guessing an analysis.

"I don't think that's what the artist is implying at all with this piece," she said to you. She was holding a real life crystal champagne glass. Did that mean she was important?

"Sorry?" you said. You could feel Van step closer to you.

"The use of red here, it doesn't feel violent. It's about love,"

"Um… it's… definitely violent. I don't wanna freak you out but that bit there is literally blood," you said, pointing to the part where you'd accidentally cut yourself with the knife you were using to cut the canvas. You left the drops of red after much consideration.

"That's a red herring," she replied.

"Yeah, no-"

"At any rate. I'm putting in a bid on the piece. I should like to meet the artist first. Do you know where he is?"

You paused and all the anger you'd channelled into the piece the woman was standing by was seeping back into you. Van cleared his throat, glancing at you.

"Right here," he said, strategically.

"Young man! You should have introduced yourself sooner. You do look like a romantic,"

"I am, really. But, that ain't 'bout love," he said, pointing to the art. Her face dropped.

"It's about being angry and hurt. You'd know that if you read the little sign. What it don't say though is the thing about the blood. Only the artist could 'ave known that. Maybe you're a bit too daft to figure that out though," Van said. He was about to lose you a small fortune, but you let it happen. "Don't say that to be a twat but. Just figure, if you were the least bit bright you might 'ave read the giant fucking sign with her name on it when you walked in. Might have asked who she was before you tried to be all clever and snobby. She don't need your money if you don't even get what her art's about, you know what I mean?"

You didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to do. The people around you that were pretending to not listen in didn't know what to. The curator of the exhibition appeared, hand on the woman's back.

"Everything alright here?" she asked.

"Perfectly fine. I'd like to see the next artist please," the woman said and quickly moved from the room.

Alone, you turned to Van. He was waiting for a reaction. You wanted his first.

"How much would you 'ave made if she bought it?" he asked when you didn't speak.

"Enough to live off for the rest of the year. Might have been able to talk her into commissioning a matching piece," you replied.

"I'll buy all of these,"

"You don't have to,"

"I want to," he said immediately.

"Don't believe you,"

"I wanted your alligator as soon as I saw it. I want these,"

"Still don't believe you,"

"Yeah, well, I'm buying them. Watch me." And you did. You followed him from the room and weave through the spaces until he found the gallery director. Standing far away enough that it wasn't weird, you watched Van talk to the director. He got out a credit card and went to pay for them on the spot. You had six pieces in total, and the combined revenue would keep you sustained for maybe two years.

Before his card was swiped you ran over and snatched it from his hands.

"You really can't do this,"

"Y/N?" the director said. "What are you doing?"

"He's only buying them because he's guilty," you told him.

Van laughed and reached out for the card. You held it behind your back, but he pulled you closer by the waist and gently you fought you for it.

"Y/N. He'd placed them all on hold days ago,"

"What?" you said. In your shocked state, Van took his card back and handed it over.

"You ain't gonna believe this but I'll tell ya anyway. I just got a new house and I've never been good at house stuff. Don't collect anything, don't spend enough time there to really decorate, but I want it to be nice, you know? So, my mate Larry says to me I should get some proper art. Like, some of that cool stuff from the place his mate works out,"

"I'm the mate," the director said with a wave.

"So, Larry brings me here the other day, and this was all set up and I picked your stuff before I even knew it was yours. They didn't have any of the signs up then,"

"They add that in last," you said.

"Exactly. But when I looked close at some of the drawings, it kind of looked familiar, so I asked, and ta-da… it was you. Was always going to have them, because I really do love them, but it's just better now, you know?"

You looked at him in disbelief, then you felt an overwhelming sense of sadness.

"What do you mean you don't spend any time at home?"

"We tour a lot,"

"So you're not even buying them to look at. You're buying them to be normal?"

"What? No. Y/N. I love them. They're better off with me than some rich person with her own special glass. I love them,"

"And, they are yours," the director said as he handed over the completed paperwork. "Exhibition runs for a week, so we can deliver them after that. We'll call you." Van thanked him, then he quickly disappeared, leaving you and Van to your moment.

"I think you're amazing. I think what you do is amazing,"

"Feels weird though,"

"Yeah… Your face is telling me that. It's not though. Come on. I think you need another drink, yeah?" he asked as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you along to where the champagne was. 

Van stayed by your side the entire night, and when the exhibition was closed and you found yourself out on the street with Van's jacket around your shoulders, you felt the sorrow of an anticlimactic night approaching. You watched Van smoke and walk circles around you.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you asked him.

"Thinking… we're not done, yeah?" he replied, settling in a casual stance in front of you. "Gotta celebrate your success. There's a good pub halfway between here and home,"

"Sounds good."

...

You and Van got so drunk that when you propped yourself up against the bar, ready to order at final calls, he thought it would be a good idea to try to pay for the beers with your art. He leant over the bar and stole one of their pens, then handed it to you with a napkin. The bartender looked unimpressed, but you thought it was genius.

"Nah, mate, see, she's a proper artist. On the wall of a gallery, innit? So, you gotta accept this, 'cause she's gonna be the next fuckin' Banksy," he said. You snorted.

"If I'm Banksy then you won't know I'm Banksy so none of this will matter," you mumbled, drawing a new logo for the bar.

"Ain't Banksy the guy from Massive Attack?" the bartender asked. Van shrugged.

"Done!" you called, holding up the napkin. The bartender took it, then sighed as he glanced from you to Van.

"Fine," he said as he put two bottles of beer on the bar. "Only 'cause you're always fuckin' here, mate. Your tips alone are putting us through college."

Van cheered and high-fived you, and you both stumbled back to your table in the corner of the room. You'd been at the bar for hours, and although there were a million more things you wanted to ask each other, the words weren't forming and eyelids were getting heavy.

"Think… home now," Van said when you’d down the bottles. You nodded. "Taxi home, couple'a minutes. Come with, yeah? Can 'ave my bed."

Maybe you said yes, maybe you nodded, maybe you just let him take your hand and lead you outside and into the warm back seat of a taxi. The city went by in a blur that made you feel sick, so you buried your head in Van's lap.

"She ain't gonna make a mess in me taxi, is she?" the driver asked.

"Nah, mate. I got her," Van replied, brushing your hair away from your face and leaning down to check on you. "Don't puke," he whispered into your ear. You smirked and nodded.

The ride was short, and when you got inside the darkness of Van's house, your bones began to crumble. They knew they were close to bed, to rest, and they started to give up. Van's arm held you up and he semi-dragged you to a bed and let you fall into it. You tried to crawl under the blanket but Van had a hold of your feet; he was pulling your shoes off as gently as his drunk self could. When victory was his, he let you go and you disappeared into the folds of his unmade bed.

"Night, love," he said. You mumbled back at him and passed out before he'd even turned the light out.

You woke up a few hours later overheated and with an almost bursting bladder. You stripped your clothes off and realised quickly it was a mistake. Firstly, it was weird to be naked in the bed of someone you didn't know all that well. Secondly, you still needed to get up to pee. By moonlight, you found a shirt on the floor and threw it on. It sat halfway down your thighs, enough coverage to be seen in. You were sure Van would be fine with lending you his clothes.

As you tiptoed through the house you just about got lost. Still drunk, then. When you could hardly keep yourself upright on the toilet you nodded to yourself. Still drunk, definitely.

Back in Van's bed, you were comfy and content and fell back asleep quickly.

...

In the morning, you found Van standing in an unfurnished living room space. When he looked over and saw you in the doorway, he grinned.

"Hey. How's your head?" he asked. You pouted. "Yeah. Should apologise. Think you were just tryna keep up with me. Should've slowed ya down,"

"Nah. Was good. What… are ya doing?" you asked, walking closer. Van pointed to the wall.

"Deciding where your stuff is gonna go. Do all of them have to stay together? Can't work out if it will look like a shine to you if they're next to each other, or if it's weirder to dedicate the whole place to ya, you know what I mean?"

"Um… I've never thought about it. Just figured if I was gonna get lucky and have buyers, that they wouldn't buy more than one. Guess it's up to you,"

"Yeah…" he said slowly. He looked over at you, rubbing his hands together. "Coffee?"

"Oh my god, yes."

As you followed him through the house, you noted the boxes of unpacked belongings. There were fewer things and less furniture than the spaces were demanding. In the kitchen, you sat on the bench and watched Van make fresh coffee, or more correctly, watched Van watch the machine make fresh coffee. He leant against the opposite bench when he was sure it was doing its thing, and smiled.

"You look dead cute in that," he said.

"Thought you wouldn't mind, but I had to get up and pee so needed to not be naked," you explained poorly.

"Why were you naked?"

"Too hot,"

"Why'd you not just use the ensuite?" he asked with a smirk.

"Well, fuck. Clearly I was too drunk to check what was behind door number two," you replied with a laugh.

"But yeah, I don't mind. Can't. It's not mine,"

"What? Who's is it?"

"My mate Larry's,"

"Ah, Larry. The same Larry that said you should get art?" you asked.

"Yeah, that's the one,"

"And 'Larry, call a load of smoke in' Larry?"

Van laughed, nodding. "You listened to the album?"

"Had to know what my lil' gator was repping,"

"Of course," he replied, and turned to pour the coffee.

You slid off the counter and opened the fridge, looking for the milk. Putting it on the bench and nodding when Van held up the sugar, you asked, "How old's the pizza in the fridge?"

"Yesterday's."

Van watched you search through the kitchen cupboard looking for a plate, then watched as you microwaved his leftover pizza. When you were standing happily chewing, he walked and took a slice for himself.

"Make yourself at home, love," he laughed.

"Is the pizza Larry's too?"

"Uh… I guess? He paid for it, so yeah…"

"Wow. I think Larry's my best friend now too."

Van picked up the coffee mugs and motioned for you to follow him from the room. His backyard was yet to be landscaped, and you suspected it probably never would be. It would remain messy grass and a looming tree until he had a reason for it to be otherwise. Was he a family man? Did he dream about a wife with a little veggie garden? A toddler with a cubby house? There was a deck that seemed to be already well used though, wine stains and cigarette ash. You sat together at a glass table.

You were lost in your hangover when Van spoke again.

"I think you would like Larry,"

"Probably. I'm not too good at making friends though,"

"What do you mean?" he asked, lighting a smoke and settling into his chair for a proper deep and meaningful. "What about Trent?"

"I've known him for a little bit. I guess he's the closest I've ever got to a best friend, or whatever. I don't know," you said with a shrug. "I just… never really connected with anyone in that way. Used to make me heaps sad. Thought I was a weirdo. Kind of just accepted it now,”

"But you've got friends?"

"…Yeah? Trent. I still talk to this girl I met in my graphics class. Um… There are a few others, but, I don't know, I don't love them or anything." Van looked at you like you were an alien, and it honestly hurt just a bit. "Everyone's always just had someone better than me," you said, trying to make that the reason for the pain rather than Van's expression.

"Well, you're my friend now. I don't think there's anyone better than you,"

"Larry?"

Van grinned. "Nah. You're much prettier than him."

You ignored the flirting; it was too much to process. "How long have you known him?"

"Forever. Known most of my close friends since I was a kid. Being in the band has meant I've met heaps of new people but, and I love them all,"

"Yeah… You're a very likeable person. Makes sense you'd be popular and in love with everyone you meet," you replied, looking into the mug to avoid Van's intense gaze.

"Yeah, but I like you extra," he said. It felt like he was about to say more, but his phone vibrated along the tabletop. He held it up. "Speak of the fuckin' devil," he laughed. He answered the call. "Larry, mate, what's up?"

You listened as they had a conversation about how many of Larry's things were mixed with Van's in the moving boxes. Van listed some records and video games, then looked over at you with a smirk.

"You know that shirt you got, the big one with my mate Jimmy Morrison on it? Yeah, you ain't getting that back… … 'Cause there's a girl sitting with me that looks much, much better in it than you… … No… Yeah. Y/N… Yeah…" Van cackled with laughter and it was unnerving to know you were being spoken about. Van watched your reaction with amusement. "Mate, I'm being rude. I gotta go… … Yep, see ya later." He hung up and laughed at you.

"So rude,"

"I'm just so sorry, love," he teased.

You sat on the deck a little while longer, before retreating into the house to change back into your own clothes. You left Morrison on Van's bed, carefully folded. Part of you was hopeful you'd see him again soon.

Van drove you home and you parted ways with an exchange of numbers and a promise of a casual dinner and whole catalogue of new feelings. He bit his lip as he watched you walk inside, and behind the closed door of your place, you melted to the floor and groaned loudly.

…

Just under a week later Van was knocking on your front door. You let him through your house and he followed you to where you'd set up a little studio. His money had paid for it, but when you said that he corrected you. "Your art paid for it."

"Yeah… well… I kinda lost track of time…" you said, looking down at yourself. A grey ink-splattered t-shirt and yoga pants. Van smirked.

"Oh? Just thought that was your 'going to dinner' look." You rolled your eyes at him. "Can I see what you're working on? Just so I can start planning where I'll put it in my place,"

"Everything about you annoys me," you replied. He grinned.

He stood behind you as you stared at the piece. It wasn't really a painting… but it wasn't your usual snappy graphic designed style either. You'd been experimenting with technique. It didn't really make sense to you yet, but it would. You looked over your shoulder at Van. He had a spacey expression on his face.

"Stop it," you ordered.

"Stop what?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the piece. He stepped closer and reached out to touch it. It was wet with lumps of black paint, and he instantly moved his hand away, like he'd touched a hot stove. "Fuck! Sorry!" 

You laughed.

"It's okay."

He looked down at the paint on his hands. Suddenly, he was wiping it on your shirt, adding to the mess. Just as quick, you picked up a brush and dabbed it in the gold paint you'd mixed yourself with spices from the kitchen and old makeup. You got a line across Van's face before he even thought to move.

"Mmm, yes, very good. An improvement," you said.

"Who's being rude now?"

He snatched the brush from your hand and collected some of the black from the painting, leaving a smudge of shimmery gold-black that later you would consider to be the best part of the piece. You went to run, but he had you by the waist, covering your cheek and forehead in the paint. It was in your hair and you were in a fit of giggles.

"Van! That takes so long to wash out!" you screamed.

"I'm so sorry!" he said as he dropped the brush and used his hand to rub it into you. You escaped from his grip and stood in the opposite corner of the room catching your breath. He laughed and picked up the brush. Lucky you'd laid an old rug on the floor, designed to absorb your mess and ensure you'd get your bond money back. Van sat in your chair and looked at your art. "Can I make something?" he asked, and looked back over at you but snorted when he saw you trying to assess the damage to your hair.

"Yeah. I need to shower now, so maybe me an apology piece while I'm gone."

You set him up with supplies and left him to it. In the shower you washed your hair three times but felt sure you'd find flecks of black for days to come. Before getting dressed, you checked on Van. He laughed when you entered the room in a fuzzy robe and hair in a towel.

"Nah-ah! You can't see it till it's done," he ordered, directing you out the room with a flick of the wrist.

Jeans and a t-shirt on, you dried your hair and settled on a coat of mascara and lipgloss. Van had seen you blind drunk, painfully hungover, and fresh out of the shower. No point in aiming for illusion anymore.

When you walked into the studio, Van was staring down at his hands. They were completely covered in paint. You had expected it to be worse, so it was a good outcome. You stood behind him and looked at what he'd made. It was all swirling lines and patterns of different colours that blended into each. Over the top, he had pressed his hand prints and written his name in the paint.

"A masterpiece," you said.

"I think the colours tell a story,"

"Is the red for love or violence?" you asked with a smirk. He laughed.

He went off to wash his hands. He would take a long time, making sure not to leave any stained water on the bathroom bench. When he returned, he leant against the door frame and watched you looking at his painting. You genuinely did like it. He'd ruined it by writing his name though.

"We don't have to go out," he said. You looked over at him. "Could order in. Get some tunes goin'. I'll paint you another thing."

You felt a little dizzy. Maybe it was the paint fumes, or the fact you'd not eaten all day - saving your appetite for a good dinner. Really, it was Van making your head spin and toes feel all numb. You nodded.

You pushed open the windows of the small makeshift studio room as Van picked music to play from your laptop. You sat on the windowsill eating Thai from cardboard cartons, swapping every so often, then settled in to paint.

After he proved himself on paper, you gave him one of your canvases and a pencil. He had to plan it out first, you told him. You sat on the floor at his feet watching him try his hardest. His creative talent really wasn't in the visual arts though. But you were in love with the way his tongue stuck out in concentration, and with how he'd forget about the lead on his finger tips and scratch the side of his nose, leaving shadows across his freckled skin.

Van stayed the night. You had stayed up to 3 am painting with him, then as he continued, inspired and determined to impress, you fell asleep on the floor on top of the blanket you'd dragged in from your bed. Van woke you up and gently helped you to bed. As he went to leave the room, you pulled him down onto the mattress with you. "Stay?" you whispered. He kicked off his boots and nodded.

Curled around each other, smelling of paint and probably staining your sheets with it, you both fell asleep quickly and a little in love.


End file.
